Windy Martinez Poet Personification

She don't blink

my block got bones
made of brick and breath.
she bleed through cracked hydrants,
catch cigarette ash like snowflakes,
and see like a fly to death.
her ribs? fire escapes-
bent, rust-bit, bruised.
kids dangle off ‘em like loose teeth,
their joy just one cracked step from falling.
she don’t blink.
she sees the crackhead two buildings over
lean so far out the window
it look like gravity let go on purpose.
she sees the baby-faced boy
swipe an apple from the fruit stand,
run like his momma’s belt already in mid-air.
she hears the couple across the courtyard
curse in two languages at once—
“coño, cabrón, i told you don’t touch my phone!”
plates crash like punctuation.
she know who did it. always.
remember joe? down the block?
she know it was lil ronnie shot him—
don’t matter what his momma said on the news.
she know when the baby’s daddy ain’t coming back.
she know which apartment got roaches,
and which girl been sneaking out
with borrowed lashes and somebody’s man.
she see the 13-year-olds roll up outside the laundry,
blow smoke like they men already,
moms swearing they honor students
while they tag walls with their street names in sharpie.
she see grandma on 4c
push that stroller with one hand,
baby crying, bottle hanging,
other kids yelling “nana, i’m hungry!”
while her daughter chase smoke and basslines down lenox.
she don’t talk much,
but she remember everything.
her silence ain’t peace—
it’s storage.
she carry folks’ stories
like groceries up six flights.
she don’t sleep easy. never did.
she hums lullabies in radiator heat,
carries secrets in stairwell echoes,
and if you listen close,
you might hear her say your name too.

♡Like0

Share Poem

---

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment